First question everyone asks when I say I took a train to New York City: “How long did it take?”

“Fourteen days,” I reply, tongue firmly in cheek.

Which is when at least one person will ask, “Seriously?”

No, not seriously. The Silver Meteor leaves Savannah at 7:38 at night and pulls into Penn Station at 11:06 a.m. One way: $160 (15 percent off if you’re over 62). And that’s for coach, not a sleeper. For the record, we left an hour late. But if you have to ask you should probably take a plane. (Planes are never late, right?)

Trains are not fast. They are not cheap. They are not modern.

They are analog.

To assist you on the big step off the train during cigarette breaks — yes, that’s how they are announced: “All right, you smokers, Get ready. We’re going to have a break in a few minutes in Washington, D.C.” — or when you are getting on for the first time, the conductor tosses down a short, yellow, perforated, four-legged stool for you to step on and extends a hand to help you. During the trip the stool rides along in the area between the cars, bumping along outside the restrooms.

When you board, no one is platinum. No one is gold or silver or medallion. No one boards before anyone else. No one is special. Everyone pulls their luggage to the platform, crowds together and waits to be told which car they should be on.

And when the conductor asks where you are going he or she uses a short, stubby pencil to assign you a seat. After you’re seated and the train starts to pull away — at maybe 60 miles an hour, faster out in the open, faster in the rest of the country where the tracks are better and the coast is clear between you and CSX, which usually has the right of way — the uniformed conductor with the cool, cornered hat walks through the car, looks at your ticket and slips a piece of white paper the size of a book mark into a slot above your seat with your final destination scrawled on it. After SAV it could be DEN (Denmark, S.C.), COL (Columbia), CA (Camden), HAM (Hamlet) or RGH (Raleigh).

Thirteen more stops — including Washington, D.C. (WAS), Baltimore (BAL) and Philadelphia (PHL) — and you emerge in the middle of New York City, West 31th Street and 8th Avenue.

The train is analog.

It comes with a cushy Barcalounger kind of chair with a little foot thingy that kicks up. There’s so much room that when the person in front of you scoots back you will not see any nose hairs. There’s probably twice as much as room as in a plane seat. And you are on ground level.

Experienced train-travelers know to get on with a blanket, a pillow, eyeshades, a book, a sweatshirt and all manner of electronic equipment. Electric plugs are plentiful.

There is still a dining car although the tablecloth is a high-grade white plastic, not linen. There is flatware; it is not plastic. It is not cheap. It is not faux (social) media. It’s face to face at a four-top where you have to talk, old school, when you sit community style with strangers.

The train is analog.

I shared a table with a mother and son from Syracuse, N.Y. We talked about the NCAA basketball game between Michigan and Syracuse. In the morning I bumped into the mother as I was navigating her car heading for coffee at the “café.” They had watched the whole game on their phone.

“Your team won,” she said.

In the morning — which you are convinced will never come because, while you may start your trip sitting up and impressed with all the leg room, you will end it hours later slouched down in a ball, tucked in, or sprawled out. There’s little modesty in coach: Mouths are open, arms sprawled, legs splayed, elbows akimbo. You will wake to the conductor bounding through the car announcing, “Good morning. Good morning. Can I get a good morning?”

When you get back home and hear a faraway whistle (so faint you think, did I really hear that?) your heart will stop a second.

You have to like looking out the window if you’re going to ride a train — at surprisingly wide rivers, piles of rusty junk, high school football stadiums in small towns, ornate graffiti, listing barns, lone bike riders, hills and birds. It can be a little lonely.